Chapter 4: The Letter
An imbecile! A witless bastard! By God, for him to even think that a woman like her would take to a man—a monster like him! It was ludicrous! He was destined for solitude, darkness, a life of living in purgatory. Christine...a goddess! Light, the epitome of Heaven's most beautiful angels! And he had the audacity to imagine her on his arm during a stroll through the park, reading together by the fire, writhing beneath him! Normal men were privy to the pleasure of having a woman, Erik, on the other hand, would never be in deservance of such rapture.
Why had Christine thought him to be married? Wasn't she blatantly aware of the fact that he was clearly hiding something beneath his mask? What would make her think that any woman would allow him to court her or, God forbid, marry her?!
Perhaps she was mad...alternatively, she could be just like her—
No, he couldn't think of it. Gustave was the only person who would ever accept him. His daughter wouldn't possess the same nature.
Erik's hand quaked as he poured a third glass of brandy, attempting to obtain at least some semblance of control so he could finish his work. The faster he concluded his workday, the sooner he would be able to drown his thoughts in his music.
He took up his pen and glass, turning his attention to the nearly finished design for a new church that was to be built in Nice. It had been a struggle deciding on what shape the windows would be for the clerestory. Oval or–
His attention was drawn to the door, which was slowly being pushed open by none other than Christine Daae. Part of him was elated to see her, but his efforts to push her from his mind had been quashed in a matter of seconds.
Erik decided to stay silent and watched her as she wandered towards the far wall, which housed his collection of masks. They were of little use to him as he merely just kept them for aesthetic purposes, after all, he hated the way porcelain or clay felt on his skin, but each one held a different memory. Every single one of them was crafted for him by men and women he met during his travels across Europe.
Christine was focused on one that had been made in Florence just a few years prior. A black and white checkered mask that was one of his favorites. She lifted it from its mount and turned it in her hands before lifting it to her face. Erik bit back a smile and took a sip of his brandy. Then, she was turning towards him and he realized that she would catch him watching her, but he couldn't look away in time. Her eyes had found him.
There was a shriek followed by porcelain shattering on the floor. Shards of the mask scattered across the hardwood in large and small pieces. He stared at the remnants of his possession and while he would usually become irritated, he couldn't bring himself to even think of feeling that way towards Christine.
"Mon dieu, I am so sorry!" she exclaimed, dropping to her knees and scooping the pieces into a pile. She gasped and rapidly pulled one of her hands towards her chest, clutching it against herself.
Erik set his brandy and pen on a table and strode over to her. "Did you hurt yourself? Let me see."
Christine shook her head and held her hand tighter. "No, I–I'm fine." She averted her eyes and stared down at the broken porcelain. "It's hardly been a week and I'm already breaking your things."
He chuckled and knelt down next to her, grasping her arm and pulling it from her chest. "Don't worry yourself. I didn't like that one anyways," he said, turning her hand over. Bright blood was dripping down her wrist from a puncture wound on her palm. Thankfully it wasn't a deep slice that required medical attention. He despised doctors. "You cut yourself."
"I'll be fine," she said meekly. Her eyes met his and his heart stopped. Tears were wavering on her waterline and her bottom lip trembled. The sight nearly brought moisture to his own eyes. "I really am sorry. You frightened me and it just slipped."
Erik pressed his thumb to the puncture wound to stop the bleeding and moved closer to her. "Please don't be sorry. It was my fault. I should have announced myself."
Christine looked down and tears plopped onto the hardwood floor. "It was so beautiful and I ruined it."
"Look at me, Christine," he murmured. "Please."
She swiped her tears away and slowly turned her face back towards him, but her eyes avoided his. He wanted more than anything to capture her chin in his hand and force her to look at him, to force her to understand that she could do no wrong.
"Christine," he whispered, daring to draw his hand up to her damp cheek. His fingertips hovered over the flushed skin and with a steadying breath, he allowed them to connect. The flesh beneath the pads of his fingers was softer than he could have imagined. It was like warm velvet. She froze under his touch, her eyes finally locked with his and her lips stopped trembling.
A lump formed in his throat and speaking became impossible. He could hardly hear anything other than their ragged breaths and the thundering of his heart in his ears.
How could a broken little thing look so wondrous? How could a woman he only just met make his heart thump so erratically that he thought he might die? How could those wide eyes make him forget what he was? The small creature that allowed him to touch her...he would fall to her feet and worship her, fill her room with dozens of roses, craft sonnets that would rival that of the greatest poets, make music for her–his music.
He hadn't an inkling of why he felt the way he did. The feeling was foreign to him and his mind begged the question of if it was safe. Surely, he was in no danger in the presence of Christine, but why did he feel so weak around her?
Erik realized he was still caressing her cheek so he gathered every bit of willpower within himself and retracted his hand. What had possessed him to touch her?
Her cheeks were no longer wetted and he wondered just how long he had been staring at her and making a fool of himself. Without a second thought, he forced his eyes away from hers and down to her wounded hand. His thumb was still pressed against the puncture and the blood that stained her wrist had dried.
He cleared his throat, praying that he had not lost his voice. "Allow me to take you to the washroom. I can bandage your hand."
Christine nodded quickly. "Alright. Thank you."
With her hand in his, he rose from the floor and she followed. He led her through the door and towards the back of the house where he had a small washroom that would be sufficient enough for their needs.
Once inside, Erik realized how compact the space actually was. Being so close to her in the confinement was suffocating, but he couldn't bring himself to abandon her to clean herself up. Instead, he released her hand and started rifling through his drawers for supplies.
He was able to produce a length of gauze and a towelette to clean her wound. With the products in hand, he faced her only to realize that she was watching him with her lips drawn into a smile, a vast contrast from just a few minutes before.
"Are you alright?" he asked, setting everything on the counter.
"Yes."
Erik noticed she was shifting on her feet. "Are you uncomfortable standing?"
Christine lowered her head and tucked her hair behind her ear. "Not at all, I just—I'm fine."
Curious, he thought as he grasped her hand. It was odd how she behaved so bashfully in his presence. Or was she like this all the time? He hardly knew her after all.
With a quiet sigh, he turned on the tap and wet the towelette before lightly dabbing at the puncture. Once it was clean, he swept lower and scrubbed the blood from her wrist. Then, he grabbed the gauze and started wrapping her hand, being sure not to make it too tight.
"Why do you wear a mask?"
The question gave him pause and he looked at her out of the corner of his eyes. Of course curiosity would eventually get the better of her, but he knew that she needed to know what hid beneath. After all, she was going to be living with him permanently.
Erik sucked in a deep breath and continued wrapping her hand. "I was born with a deformity. It's quite hideous so I wear a mask. It makes me at least tolerable to look at."
Christine's brows furrowed and she asked the one question he hoped she wouldn't. "Can I see it?"
A lump formed in his throat and he fought hard to swallow it. This woman was asking him to see the ruin of his life? If he showed her, would she run away? Would she scream in terror and call the authorities to capture him in chains? Would he be sold back to the gypsies since he no longer had Gustave to protect him?
Erik lowered his head and dropped her bandaged hand. "No, don't ask again. I wish for you to respect my privacy on the matter."
"Of course, I apologize for asking. I do hope that one day you will trust me enough to show me your true self."
Show her, a part of him commanded, but he couldn't bring himself to lift his hand to his face. The image of her running and screaming filled his mind and he clenched his jaw, forcing himself to take a steadying breath through his nose. He would never show her, even if he trusted her, he would never allow his haunted face to be uncovered in the presence of a goddess.
"Perhaps one day," he lied.
Christine slowly nodded. "Thank you for—for bandaging my hand." She twisted an auburn ringlet around her index finger and peeked at him through her lashes. "You have been nothing but kind to me and I wish I had some way to repay you."
"I ask for nothing in return."
"There has to be something you want," she murmured as she took a step towards him. Her chest was only inches away from pressing into him as he backed up against the wall.
If Erik had any sense in his mind, he would flee the room but his feet were cemented to the floor. A chill ran up his spine and heat enveloped his cheeks. Was she implying—certainly not! Not with him, not with a monster. He would never allow it.
"Christine," he whispered, hardly even realizing he spoke.
"Yes?" Her eyelashes batted slowly as she stared up at him with a rosy blush on face.
By God, he needed to move, to run, anything to relinquish himself of the inferno that was ripping through him. Being so close to her was a death sentence. He would be boiled alive and there would be nothing he could do about it.
Erik swallowed hard and looked away from her, instead focusing on the open door directly across from him. "I believe—I have work. I have to finish my—" He couldn't speak anymore. His lips trembled and he was certain that if she moved any closer, she would feel the bulge constrained within his trousers.
Run, you fool!
"I will take my leave," he hurriedly said as he pushed past her and made his exit.
His bedroom. He needed to be in his bedroom. Not the music room. She could find him there.
Erik sprinted up the stairs and bounded down the hallway until he was safely behind the locked door of his private chambers. He grabbed his bottle of absinthe and drank deeply, not bothering to grab a glass. It burned his throat, but he didn't care. He needed to douse the flames before he did something he would come to regret.
He broke from the bottle and gasped for air, slightly peeved that the alcohol didn't drown him. The bottle slipped from his hand, thankfully landing right side up on the desk and not shattering. He collapsed into his chair and dropped his head into his hands, attempting in vain to push all thoughts of Christine from his mind.
Alas, she was there. Flitting images of her beneath him in the hallway, her bare thighs, her stockinged legs wrapped around his waist...
Damn it all to Hell! Why was every one of his thoughts about Christine? Why did Gustave want him to take care of his daughter? The ballet mistress would have been a better fit than him! Of course, Gustave wasn't in his right mind when he made the decision, but he could have at least given some alternatives.
It was the worst torture being so close to a woman he wouldn't dare dream of having. He should submit himself to a sewer for the rest of his days for even envisioning having his way with her.
"Erik?" a voice came from the door followed by a quiet knocking.
By God, she had found him!
Erik squeezed his eyes shut and took a steadying breath before standing from his chair. He swayed slightly and came to the realization that he had consumed far too much absinthe than he was used to. He could only pray that he wouldn't make a fool of himself again.
He stepped towards the door, slowly so as to not make any noise and listened for a moment. Perhaps, he should just ignore her and she would leave him in peace, but he couldn't. He wanted to see her again, even if she drove him into madness. He could control himself, keep his distance and ensure that he had an exit during every encounter.
With one more deep breath, he turned the handle and opened the door. Christine was standing patiently, her hands clasped in front of her. He gripped the doorframe to steady himself so that it wouldn't be too obvious that he had too much to drink.
"Are you alright? You left so suddenly and I was worried it was because of me."
"I'm just fine, thank you and no, it was not because of you," he assured her, though he was lying. She was precisely the reason for his escape to his bedroom.
Christine nodded slowly and her gaze dropped to the floor. "I–I was hoping I could ask you if you would be willing to help me with something. My father gave me a letter and told me to open it if anything happened to him."
"Do you want me to open it?" Erik knew of the letter. He had allowed Gustave to use his desk to write it while Erik prepared himself to gather Christine from her home.
"Yes. I haven't been able to find the courage to do it myself."
Erik offered a small smile. "I will be glad to help."
Christine returned his smile and said, "Thank you. I have it in my room, if you want to open it there. If not, I can meet you in the parlor."
"Your room is fine," he said quickly. There was little possibility that he would be able to safely make it down the stairs. It would be an hour or two before he could even think of doing so.
He followed her to her bedroom and took the seat she offered, thankful that he didn't have to ensure he wouldn't fall over any longer. She busied herself with digging under her pillow and produced a crumpled envelope.
"Here it is. Can you read it to me?" She passed him the envelope and retreated to sit on the edge of the bed. He watched as she crossed her ankles but quickly looked away, not wanting a repeat of what happened in the washroom. He had finally managed to be rid of his arousal—mostly.
"Yes," he said as he opened the envelope.
Erik pulled the contents out and discarded the envelope on a nearby console table. He was surprised to see two letters in his hand. One was for her and the other was for him. He peeked up at her and saw that her eyes were fixed away from him so he tucked his letter into his coat pocket, opened hers, and began to read:
My Christine,
If you are reading this, I have joined your mother in Heaven. I have asked Erik to explain everything to you, and I hope you will find it within yourself to forgive me.
Please, treat Erik kindly, trust him, allow him to protect you. He is my closest friend and I know he will take care of you.
Which brings me to my one and only request.
Erik paused and blinked rapidly to clear any bleariness from his eyes to ensure he had read what Gustave had written correctly. The words were clear as day, no doubt at all. His heart thundered as he continued the letter:
Marry him. For your safety, be rid of the Daae name. I do not know if you are in danger, but I can only assume the worst. He will make for a good loving husband and in time, I expect you to accept him for who he truly is.
You are a gift from God, my Angel of Music.
With all my love,
Papa
Silence fell over them and Erik closed his eyes, waiting to hear her sobs and pleads to not force her into marrying him. It was expected, no woman would ever willingly marry him, even if their father had requested it.
Instead, he heard the padding of feet and opened his eyes to see Christine standing directly in front of him, reaching for the letter. She scanned over it and he examined her, trying to find any hint of disgust, but her expression was unreadable. She wore a face of stoicism.
"Christine, marriage isn't–we don't have to–I am not expecting–"
She held up her hand as her eyes darted over the paper, her lips moving silently. He watched as she lowered her eyes and folded the paper neatly before stuffing it into the drawer of the vanity.
"I would like to be alone for a while, if that's alright. I seem to have some things to think about," she whispered as she moved back to her bed.
Erik nodded and rose from his seat. "Yes, I will be in my room for a while, then I have some designs that need finishing. Take as long as you need."
Christine didn't respond, so he quickly left her room and returned to his own. He instantly pulled the letter addressed to him from his coat pocket and tore it open.
My dearest friend,
Thank you for taking care of my Christine. Please stay true to your promises to keep her safe and provide for her in my absence. You are the only person who I trust to do so.
I am making the assumption that she has already told you of my request for her to marry you. It's selfish of me to ask, but I know you will be a good match for her, even if it is under unfortunate circumstances.
You are a good man, Erik. I always knew you were destined for greatness the day I laid eyes on you. I thank God every day for giving me the strength to free you and I am so proud of who you have become. I am to leave this world having been blessed with both you and Christine—the greatest gifts I have ever received.
I'm sorry for breaking my promise to never abandon you. In my place, I am leaving you in the care of Christine. She is stronger than she seems and has the spirit of her mother.
As difficult as she can be at times, she will be gentle and accepting. You can trust her, Erik. With anything. I truly hope you can find in her what I found in my Adaline. Look after my Angel of Music.
With all my love,
Gustave
Erik stared blankly at the paper, unable to believe the words he had read. He knew of Gustave's beliefs in him, he just couldn't believe that he would want him to marry his daughter.
It was impossible. He couldn't marry Christine. She would never allow it and he couldn't spoil her with the burden of marrying a monster! How could Gustave ask for such a thing?!
With a frustrated grunt, he dropped the letter on the floor and fell back onto his bed, closing his eyes and tossing his mask to the side.
What if she agrees to marry me?
No, to allow himself hope for the impossible was foolish. While marrying Christine would be a dream come true, he could never actually take her as his bride.
But who was he to deny his dead friend's wishes? Besides, it wasn't like she would actually agree to the arrangement. But if she wanted to honor her father's last request, then so be it. He would take Christine as his wife.